


Alfred's Memory

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU-ish? Or retcon? Who knows anymore?, Alfred is a sweet grandpa who deserves grandkids, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, One Shot, Slice of Life, Tim is a sweet boy who deserves love, may or may not be a prequel to a separate fic, we'll see, you can see where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 02:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16008653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: A few more seconds pass, ones in which Alfred stands alone with a statue, both frozen in time, and he doesn’t know why, but…he hopes the boy knows.He hopes he knows he has a friend.





	Alfred's Memory

It’s not the kind of affair he usually frequents. That’s all Alfred can think as he listens to the ongoing presentations, the voices drifting in and out of the rooms. His footsteps echo faintly on the polished floors, and the more he travels, the thinner the crowd gets, probably bored of the dimly lit spaces and staged displays.

It’s an event at the museum, guest speakers discussing their latest findings. The whole thing is open to the public, so no one bats an eye at the Englishman who’s weaving his way through the exhibits, perusing the artifacts and wordy plaques that promise facts and stories alike.

_“You should come in, Alfred,” Master Bruce said when they pulled up, “You deserve a break.”_

_The man’s date beamed and nodded her agreement. “Yes. I’d hate to think of you waiting in the car all by yourself. You should have fun too.”_

She’s a sweet thing, more than just the baseline politeness that’s common to high society women. Master Bruce isn’t taken with her, though, just playing the part, and Alfred laments that fact as he continues into the Ancient Egyptian exhibit. He’s getting on in years—They both are. And Alfred wonders what will happen to the younger man should he pass away. _Likely doomed to a life in that cave of his, I imagine_ …

Alfred’s reminded of that sad fact as he takes in hieroglyphed slabs and ornamented coffins. There’s pottery and carvings, and everyone else has meandered back to the presentation hall where there’s refreshments, so Alfred is anticipating quiet solitude.

He stops for a few minutes to stare through the glass at a small statue. It’s the visage of a man from the knee up, arms stuck at his sides while one of his thighs is shifted forward. It feels stiff and awkward, and the tip of the nose is missing.

“A lot of them are like that.”

Alfred recognizes the pitch to be that of a child’s voice, but the comment has an intelligence that causes him to look directly sideways first, half-expecting to find an adult of equal height to him. But there’s no one there, and his attention quickly snaps downward to find the true owner of the voice.

The boy is four or five, Alfred guesses, and his face is inches from the glass, gaze on the statue unrelenting as the display’s underlighting stresses the camber of his cheeks and jawline. He’s rocking a bit on the balls of his feet with that pent-up energy common to children, arms folded and seated on the bottom lip of the case. He looks oddly relaxed, as if the museum is a second home to him.

Alfred feels a smile start in his eyes (He wasn’t foreseeing this kind of company.), and he returns his focus to the statue too. “The Sphynx of Giza is like that as well, I believe.”

“Oh,” the boy says, like he’s just remembered something he’d forgotten. “You mean the nose?”

Alfred glances back at the child. “Were you referring to something else?”

“Yeah,” the boy answers sheepishly, and he’s stopped his rocking. But Alfred is unwavering in his gentle stare, lightly imploring for him to continue. It must be enough, as the elaboration comes after a short bout of shyness. “I mean the pose. A lot of ‘em have got a foot forward, like they’re trying to get somewhere, but they’re statues, so they can’t.”

It’s an innocent observation, pure and bracing in its simplicity, and Alfred takes a moment to look around. Sure enough, he’s already spied two other models with identical postures, equally rigid and immobile.

Alfred’s eyes are focused on the boy again, an endearing expression gracing the wrinkles of his face. “You’re quite the clever one, aren’t you?”

His new friend shrinks as if compliments are something he’s not used to. “I’m just here a lot,” he deflects smally. “My parents are—” He takes a deep breath, scrunching his face slightly as he enunciates, “—ar-cheo-lo-gists.”

Alfred can imagine it’s a hard word for a child to say, but he withholds the praise, if nothing more than to keep the boy from getting shy again, and he settles for a silent “ah” instead. At the mention of his parents, Alfred is curious—maybe even protective—since the child is glaringly alone. It prompts him to inquire more, “Where are they, might I ask?”

There’s a considering pause, and not once has the boy removed his attention from the sculpture. Alfred momentarily wonders what his face looks like in something other than profile.

“My folks are speaking tonight.”

Of course. They’re one of that evening’s presenters.

“They’ve been working with people from France and…Japan, I think?” he continues sweetly, and he starts rocking again like it’s a silent approval of Alfred and that he’s grown comfortable with his presence. “They research pyramids and tombs and stuff.” He perks up for a second before turning his face to Alfred, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in childlike excitement. The boy’s eyes truly are bright, blue as summer skies and cornflowers, and his is a face Alfred finds he wants to remember.

“Did you know there are rooms in the Great Pyramid that no one’s seen yet?”

“No,” Alfred smiles sagely, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” comes the eager response. The boy says each word like he hasn’t talked in a lifetime. “It’s what my parents are speaking about. They’re really happy. They’ve been working really hard.”

“I can imagine, with all the travel their work must entail.”

Alfred realizes it must be a sore spot as the boy’s gone quiet. The silence passes for a while, and Alfred uses the time to survey the boy in more detail. He’s well-dressed, likely for the occasion, and his hair is tucked behind his ears, black as oil and shining delicately in the lighting.

It doesn’t take long for Alfred to catch on to what’s wrong with his appearance. “Would you like some assistance?” he poses carefully, gesturing with his eyes to the boy’s tie. It’s a valiant attempt at a full Windsor, but Alfred can already guess it’s the child’s own handiwork.

As expected, the boy’s bashful, looking down at his hands and trying to explain, like Alfred is the undertaker and the tie is a sin that needs excusing, “I know the steps,” he says, “but my hands… They won’t work.”

The phrasing’s awkward, but Alfred gets it: Fine motor skills are a gift that comes with age. It’s funny in a way, because the child talks as if he’s older, and it’s dawning on the Englishman that the boy’s like an adult trapped in a child’s body, scrutinizing his fingers in frustration, willing them to obey when they simply can’t.

 _He’s been forced to grow up too fast_ …

Before the thought’s settled, Alfred has already knelt down and is sympathizing with choice phrases like, “It’s tricky without a mirror,” and “It comes with practice,” as he tugs at the red strips of fabric. They come undone easily enough, and soon (“Chin up.”) they’re being reworked into some semblance of order. It’s difficult to maneuver the cloth on another person, but Alfred has done it enough in his lifetime that it’s practically second nature, up there with thinking and breathing. He’s easing one of the ends out from behind the knot when he glances up.

There’s a faint blush on the boy’s face, airbrushed on pale, dandelion skin, and he’s looking a little flustered, maybe even flattered, by the attention. Alfred can’t hide the smile that’s slipped onto his own face, because Master Bruce used to wear the same expression back when he was that young, back before things changed.

“There,” Alfred breathes, straightening to admire his work. The knot is orderly now, clean and sharp. Its perfection emphasizes the fact the boy shouldn’t have needed a stranger to help him with his tie. That’s something a father does—a grandfather, even, and Alfred would feel guilty about stealing that moment if it wasn’t apparent the boy needed it from _someone_.

That much is obvious by the way the child reaches up and grips the tie as if it’s a cherished medal instead of the article of clothing that it is. He manages a small, “thank you,” apparently too touched to say anything else.

Alfred should take that as his cue to leave, the conversation having run relatively dry, but there’s still no one to supervise the boy and the words are leaving Alfred’s mouth before he can stop himself. “You must be rather knowledgeable about this exhibit,” he mentions with an easy air, glancing about the room, “I don’t come here often myself, and I do wish I knew more….”

The offer that follows is thoughtful if not a tad hopeful, and it’s what Alfred was counting on. “I can show you around…if you want?”

“That’s very kind of you, young man,” Alfred’s quick to commend, because he can tell the boy is getting better at taking the compliments and perhaps—perhaps he needs them, “I do believe I would enjoy that.”

And just like that—just like always—time slips by, and Alfred’s found he really is enjoying every minute. The boy is growing more animated by the second, gradually shedding his initial coyness as he points to one of the pots (“See the orange? That’s cause it’s marl clay!”) and chatters on about every carving in such detail that one would think he’d done them all himself.

Most of the facts Alfred is familiar with. He’s traveled a lot in his time, seen a lot of things, but a child’s smile is something he’ll never tire of. And so, the man finds himself asking anyway, an occasional question that he already knows the answer to but wants to hear repeated by his young tour guide.

The responses always come fast and thorough. There’s no arrogance there—Alfred can tell—just excitement; it’s as if each scrap of knowledge is some sugary candy the boy can’t wait to share with him, and Alfred accepts it all with sparse nods of understanding, a cordial sparkle ever-present in his eyes.

They’ve almost circled back to the beginning when there’s a heady applause that punctures the air, the sounds invading from the presentation room, and the boy’s instantly paled like he’s seen a ghost. Maybe he really has, as he suddenly can’t talk straight, “My parents are done. They—they couldn’t get a baby-sitter. I’ve gotta go,” he takes a step back, as if he’s anticipating his parents will run off and forget him there if he’s late. It hits Alfred that maybe that’s exactly what’s running through the child’s mind.

There’s something else hitting him too, though. It hasn’t mattered much until now, but it instantly feels like the world will collapse if he doesn’t know. He’s needing something to validate the boy’s existence, as if its fleeting and fickle and liable to vanish before his very eyes.

“Alfred,” he’s quick to interject before the boy leaves, “Alfred Pennyworth.” The man extends a hand and waits for the name that’s suddenly become so important.

For a moment, the child’s still cagey, likely thinking of where he might catch his parents and how to get there fastest, but the expression eases into a faint smile, just enough to touch his summer sky eyes, and soon, there’s a small hand in his. “Timothy Drake.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Drake,” Alfred returns, and the hands fall away. There’s a long pause in which there should be more said, but the Englishman knows there’s many people to sift through in the lobby. He’d offer to help, but the boy seems capable, and he does have to find Master Bruce…

“Well,” Alfred breaks, somewhat begrudgingly, “I don’t wish you late. Best be off, you know.”

Timothy jolts back to life, a little panicked, and in a flash, he’s slipping out of the room with a “It was nice meeting you!” tossed over his shoulder.

A few more seconds pass, ones in which Alfred stands alone with a statue, both frozen in time, and he doesn’t know why, but…he hopes the boy knows.

He hopes he knows he has a friend.


End file.
